The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(5)

James’s jovial expression sobered. “All true.” He moved about the cabin, hands behind his back. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been inside this cabin. May I?” He pointed to the brandy on the sideboard.

“Of course,” Walsingham said.

James made himself at home, poured several fingers of brandy, and downed the contents in one swallow. “Od’s blood, that’s good.” He glanced at Walsingham. “Armagnac from Gascony?”

Walsingham nodded. “I’m impressed.”

“My brother Garrick has spent a lot of time in the Bay of Biscay. We’ve traded for this particular brand.” James poured himself another glass and then paced the cabin. “Tell me, what is it like to captain the Fury?”

Walsingham took in the lanterns swaying in tempo with the moored ship, the table and chairs, the sideboard with washbasin, the mahogany panels lining the bulkhead, the black damask curtains at the stern windows draping over cushioned seats below, and the black-shrouded box bunk. The Fury was his home now, a surrogate to the Windraker with her sleek lines and teak decks.

“Would you like to find out?” he asked, testing James.

The pirate cut him a sharp look. “Are you serious?”

“I might be. But first”—he propped his feet on the polished desk—“what news of Carnage?”

James cleared his throat and settled his gaze on Pye. “I’m afraid the news isn’t good.”

“That has proven to be the case.” Walsingham grumbled under his breath. “Out with it, then.”

“There are reports that the Fury targeted another merchantman near the Channel Islands. No survivors reported.” James raised his glass heavenward, tipped it to his mouth, and downed the contents in one gulp. Closing his eyes, he released a sigh. “Damn, those Frenchies know how to make good brandy.”

Anger swept through Walsingham. “Where is Carnage now?” he bit out.

“Headed to Cornwall. Making good speed, if I miss my guess, which means he’ll be caught in our trap soon enough.”

“And yer brothers?” Pye asked, easing himself into the conversation. “Can we count on ’em?”

James grinned broadly. “Aye. Willing to weigh anchor and cast a wide net.”

“Good.” The tension eased from Walsingham’s shoulders. He glanced down at Chloe’s letter and the maps strewn there. “I’d like to meet one more time to coordinate our efforts.”

“That can be easily arranged, Captain, when you join our fleet in Abbydon Cove.” James braced his hand on the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist. “I feel it’s my . . . obligation to warn you that something else is afoot. My grandfather, Zephaniah Job, owns a bank in Polperro and he’s found discrepancies in several accounts that forced him to scour a number of records in the District over the past several years. Do you know him?”

“Who ’asn’t ’eard of Zephaniah Job?” Pye asked, astounded. “Been piratin’ for over thirty years.”

“Aye.” James examined the books in their inlaid cases. “There’s a rumor that old Boney is smuggling gold out of England. My grandfather thinks Charles Thorpe is involved.”

Suddenly confused and restless, Walsingham removed his feet from the desk and stood. “I had assumed Carnage acquired a significant cache from wrecking ships.”

“Aye. Most wreckers do.”

“That must be what he intends to give to the French . . .” Hair on the back of his neck prickled as he realized the Thorpe woman could be in more danger than they had thought. “Does Miss Thorpe know about any of this?”

“Who can say?” James slowly approached the desk and placed his glass upside down. “Pieces of gold have shown up at Grandfather’s bank, and as she operates the family inn and bears the same name, he believes she is likely involved.”

“Damn.” As if earning her brother’s disfavor wasn’t enough, now Miss Thorpe had to worry about Zephaniah Job, too. Could the situation get any worse? “Can you stall your grandfather until I can look further into the matter?”

James nodded, grinning. “No matter what can be said of him, he is loyal to family. Whatever I ask, he’ll give it, as long as there is merit to my request.”

“Excellent. In the meantime, I’ll confer with Girard and O’Malley. They’ve been at the Roost for several weeks and may be able to shed light on the situation.”

James straightened his cuffs. “I suggest you make haste. When you dock in Abbydon Cove, take several of your men and let rooms at the Roost.”

“Stay there?” Was the man insane?

“You and your men are unknown to Miss Thorpe and Carnage’s men,” James said. “His informants will sound the alarm and likely draw him to the inn. So let rooms, investigate the inn, and ease into her life while our net tightens. She’s an amiable woman—strong, too—and attends tea at Talland Church every week while she’s out making her deliveries.”

“Hmm . . .” Walsingham tented his fingers below his nose. “Talland Church is located midway between the Roost and Abbydon Cove. That would make it the perfect rendezvous point, would it not?”

“Aye,” James said, grinning. “Mr. Pickering already expects us, as we meet regularly to discuss Mrs. Pickering’s School for Orphans and my father’s patronage there. He may not be terribly bright—which actually works in our favor—but if anything can be said of him, he’s loyal and enthusiastic.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Pickering will do anything to get in my father’s good graces.”